“River,” Joseph said, using his stern dad voice. “You know what we said about the house. It’snothaunted. Besides, how do you call someone with aclock?”
“Set the big hand to twelve, and the little hand to three,” the boy said, looking back up at the vintage mantle-style clock again.
Joseph sucked in a quick, sharp breath. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as if all of his senses were at full attention. The sensation crept down his shoulder, covering his arms in gooseflesh, and his legs went numb. He was cold again. So cold.
It’s like someone walked over my grave,his mother used to say. Lucille Moore used to say she saw and heard things too. Unnatural things. His father, Joseph Sr., wouldn’t stand for any talk of it though. At that moment, Joseph knew exactly what his mother had been trying to tell him when she was still alive. For his son’s sake, Joseph fixed his expression and stood tall. He nodded and raised his son back up on the chair, helping him to stay steady on his feet.
“Okay, bud. Let’s test it out then,” he said, motioning to the clock. “Show me.”
River blinked and looked around the room. He hesitated for a moment, then raised his hand and dropped it again.
“You won’t be mad?” he asked.
“No, son,” Joseph said. “You have a big imagination and I love that about you. But I don’t want you to be afraid of something that isn’t there. So let’s just try it out and then you can decide for yourself whether ghosts are real or not.”
“Okay,” he shrugged, with that same skeptical Rachel expression again.
With his stout little hand, River reached up and first moved the big hand to twelve. He looked at Joseph for approval before moving the small hand to three. The old clock sprung to life, churning out a succession of chimes.
Bong, bong, bong.
Joseph stood there patiently and waited as River pursed his little lips together. The house was still and silent as ever, with only the usual creaks and groans. Nothing had changed. No new visitor.
“See?” Joseph said, giving his son a reassuring smile. “No one’s here.”
But the boy wasn’t looking at him. He was looking over his shoulder with a big, wide smile. Boomer, who had lazily been sleeping on River’s bed suddenly began to bark and wag his tail, his nose pointed in the same direction as his son’s smile.
“River,” a woman’s voice said, high and loud and clear. “Tell your father that someone is indeedhere.”
The voice had the same affect and quality of a debutante from long ago. That transatlantic, faux accent that silver screen stars like Katherine Hepburn used to employ. The same voice that he had heard on that still and quiet night on the front porch breathing into his ear.
Joseph slowly turned, forcing his body to move despite being gripped with fear. Perhaps he would see a black veiled bride standing behind him covered in gore. A rotted corpse, more skeleton than woman. A demon. A witch. Instead, the softly glowing figure of a woman floated before him. She was young and fair with short, dark hair cropped into a wavy bob and wide, dark movie-star eyes to match her voice. She wore a loose, low-waisted white gauze gown and had her arms crossed in front of her with an expression that could take paint off of walls.
“Dad, this is Carolina,” River said, playing his warm little hand at his shoulder. “This is her house.”
Joseph looked back at his son and then back at the glowing specter that hovered in front of them. Boomer whined and thumped his tail along the floor.
“Yes,” she said, raising an arched eyebrow in his direction. “And I want youout.”
